


Don't Anger Big Brother

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt:</p><p>Mycroft loosing his temper and punching somebody/beating somebody with the umbrella/telling somebody off because "Nobody calls my little brother a freak!". Everybody has a limit.<br/>Sherlock goes O_O<br/>John goes LOL/Aww...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Anger Big Brother

Don’t Anger Big Brother

 

Mycroft had dropped by NSY to see his husband, DI Gregory Lestrade. As he approached Greg's office, he noticed that his brother and John were there along with that Donovan woman and that pitiful excuse for a forensic scientist, Anderson. Even from some distance, he could see his brother gesticulating wildly. John, as ever, looked on with an admiring smile. He paused by the door to watch as Sherlock explained his most recent discoveries. He couldn't help the bubble of pride that entered his stomach as Sherlock sought to explain whatever case they were on.

Sherlock whirled around, holding out his mobile to display a photo of the crime scene. “So her first husband is clearly still alive!”

Lestrade blinked, looking confused. John grinned. Donovan and Anderson visibly scoffed.

“It's so obvious.” Sherlock gave his phone a shake - their obliviousness was so irritating. “Come now, even you lot should be able to see. It's all right there.”

John raised his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, “Maybe if you explained… in English, mind.”

“But John…”

“Come on, Sherlock, you know how this works.”

The detective took a pace forward and leant on the DI's desk. Glancing over his shoulder at John he spotted his brother by the door. Sherlock groaned. Mycroft! “Really, Lestrade. Did you have to marry him? I thought you had better taste than that.”

“Oi, you! That's my husband you're insulting,” Even as he said it, Greg smiled at Mycroft.

The two brothers were somehow obligated to exchange snark, but the DI knew they cared for each other deeply. He supposed it was something like how he and his own sister got along, just carried to the Holmsian extreme. Holmsian? He couldn't believe he'd just thought that. The door opened and, for once in his life, Mycroft Holmes looked shy. Maybe he'd be able to explain it better than his incessant little brother. All it would take was one glance at the screen and he would understand.

“May I?” Mycroft asked, holding his hand out towards his brother. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but handed his mobile over. “Ah.” With a nod, the government official explained, “Gregory, if you look here, you'll see. On the desk in the background is a photograph. It is clearly a wedding photograph of the victim and her first husband. In the upper right corner is a smudge. Blood. The last person to hold the photograph tried to wipe it away, but only succeeded in smearing it. There,” Mycroft pointed to the opposite side of the screen, “is a wedding ring. It's a woman's, as can be determined by the ornate filigree. In addition, it shows less wear than the ring that is on the victim's finger. The rings were swapped by the killer after her death in an act of remorse. So clearly the first husband.”

Sherlock reached out and snatched his mobile back, muttering, “Show off.”

“Not at all, brother-mine. Do you all understand now?”

Greg grinned and stood up to take his husband's hand, the others nodded.

“That makes you the show off, little brother.”

“It doesn't matter, Sherlock, I'm sure you'll get him back.” John grinned at him from by the door, there was a lot of people in a room only fit for one.

Sherlock managed to swoop across the room despite the crowd. Taking John's hand, he turned halfway back towards Lestrade. “Do try to find something more interesting next time, won't you, Gavin? Something exciting, not tedious and dull.”

Surprisingly it wasn't Greg or indeed Mycroft who halted his rant but Anderson. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The one that just solved the case you were so convinced was a suicide.”

“Mr. Holmes solved the case, not you.”

Sherlock scowled and glanced at John; unsure how to proceed. John took a menacing step towards the forensic scientist, his hands tightening into fists. “Anderson, I don't like to encourage Sherlock in his verbal assessments of people, but he's right. You're an idiot.”

“And you've become just as bad as he is,” Anderson snarled. “He's an arrogant bastard and a freak!”

John's knuckles went white, he was squeezing his fists so tight, but he didn't get a chance to throw a punch.

In a blur of motion, Mycroft moved, umbrella striking across the back of Anderson's knees. The forensic scientist went down. Hard and fast. Donovan went to intercept but one gravity defying glare from the government official quelled her. Mycroft's foot went up and stamped on a flailing wrist the other rested just below Anderson's throat. “How dare you,” he hissed.

The look of upmost terror on the prone man's face was a picture.

“Nobody and I mean nobody,” he pressed his toe down just below his Adam's apple. “Calls my little brother a freak. Are we clear on that?”

Anderson's eyes were wide and he nodded frantically.

“Say it!” Mycroft accompanied the order with just the slightest increase in pressure.

“We're clear! Perfectly. No one calls Sherlock a freak.”

Mycroft stepped back, tapping the floor with the ferrule of his umbrella. He straightened his coat with one hand and smiled blandly. “Dinner?” he asked over his shoulder like none of that had just happened.

Greg was goggling at him like he couldn't believe he existed.

He looked at his brother, surprised by what he had just done for the sake of name calling. He smiled sheepishly and Sherlock inclined his head slightly, a silent thank you.

“Of course,” the DI muttered when he could form words.

“Sherlock, John? You joining us?”

The detective placed his hand to the small of John's back. “I believe we will.”

Anderson had mustered what little bravery he had. “Lestrade,” he whinged, “aren't you going to do anything.” He stood. “I'm pressing charges.”

Sherlock turned, grinning wickedly. “Oh, please do try. I look forward to seeing you sent to some miserable foreign outpost. The competency of the Yard will increase exponentially.”

John tugged on Sherlock's arm. Mycroft did likewise to Greg.

“Anderson,” the DI urged, “please don't antagonise my husband. You wouldn't like the results. It would be far worse than anything that's already happened.”

That finally silenced the forensic scientist. After what he had just experienced, he didn't want to risk anything that would qualify as 'worse'.

Sherlock managed to contain his laughter until they got outside of NSY and then he broke down, holding on to John for support. Greg and John joined him but Mycroft just looked bewildered, unsure what to do.

“That was brilliant!” Greg enthused, then he dropped a chaste kiss on Mycroft's cheek.

“Being contractually obligated to be rude to my brother, I will merely say that it was passable.”

John grinned and poked Sherlock in the ribs with his elbow. “Git. But I think the fit of giggling rather gave you away.”

Sherlock pouted slightly and poked his tongue out at him, then turned to his brother.”Why, Mycroft? It's hardly the first time, or the first person, I doubt it will be the last either.”

The government official gestured them all into a waiting black sedan, using the slight delay to formulate an answer. Once they were seated and on their way, he gave his brother an answer, “No one should call you that. You aren't a freak and never have been. I won't stand for it. I never have.”

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes narrowing. “What do you... Oh!” Now his eyes went wide. “Joseph when I was 6. William, 13. Jacob, 19.”

Now it was the DI and the doctor who looked bewildered.

“Babe, what is it?” John pressed his shoulder into Sherlock's.

“When I was growing up, when we were growing up I was always in the middle of a fight and yet… it was never me who fought.”

“How'd you mean?”

“Joseph, William, Jacob, all boys who picked on me, all boys who ended up in hospital.”

Everyone turned to face Mycroft. He gave a slight shrug and looked out the window, feeling slightly embarrassed. It was an uncomfortable feeling and one he wasn't intimate with. He didn't like it. But Sherlock did something that would be a hell of lot more embarrassing for the both of them. He stood up slightly, enough to move inside the back of the sedan and shifted over, passed John and climbed onto Mycroft's lap.

Greg sputtered, Mycroft's eyes went wide and John barked out, “What the hell?!”

“I'm saying thank you.”

“I'm not a stuffed toy!” John protested loudly. “You can't just leave me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I would ever leave you. Do try to keep up.” He sighed as three faces looked at him blankly. Again.

“It's alright, John,” Greg decided, making heads move. He shifted from where he'd been sat and moved towards the doctor. John had no chance to protest as the older man took a seat on his own lap.

Sherlock's voice dropped to a growl. “Gavin, do get off my boyfriend's lap.”

Greg grinned, enjoying the younger man's discomfort. “But I'm sitting on my husband's lap by the distributive property.”

“If you move, I'll move.”

Sherlock sighed. “It's a bit different. He's my brother.”

“So?” The DI prompted.

Sherlock appeared to think it through. “Fine,” he relented.

Greg sat back by Mycroft's side, still grinning and Sherlock moved to sit next to John once again. “Still,” he said, “Thank you, Myc.”

Eyes widened at that. “Was that a thank you, brother-mine?”

Sherlock's head snapped over to look out the window. “Maybe.”


End file.
